


This thing we do

by ladyofrosefire



Category: Callisto 6 (Web Series)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Slight fluff, references to trauma, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 10:27:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17723426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofrosefire/pseuds/ladyofrosefire
Summary: Being the body of a superhero is weird. Being close to another one makes it easier. And sometimes near-death experiences bring people closer.





	This thing we do

“So,” Anton says. And stops.

Kostchie sits across from him in the driver’s seat of that car Lacy’s still salivating over. The door is open, and he has both boots planted on the asphalt and his right hand resting on his lap as he tinkers with the cybernetics. Anton sits on a block of concrete. The light of the setting sun glints off of the masts and metal of raft city.  

Kostchie looks up. His left eye should maybe be unnerving. “So?”

“Oh, I was just wondering about…” he casts about for something to say.

Because here’s the thing. He’s not an idiot. He does not need Lacy’s influence to know that asking about the metal in his chest is more than a little bit rude. Especially after Oniko. You don’t ask about how someone wound up full of various pieces of tech. You just don’t.

“How you got your name.”

It’s not that lame a finish, but it’s not his best work. He smiles, and one of Kostchie’s eyebrows goes up.

“I am very good at not dying.”

“That’s fair. Yeah. Okay, I can see that,” he nods, “And there’s the whole Russian thing.”

They lapse back into silence. Waves lap up against the dock, just audible over the hum of traffic.

“How is Hopps?”

Anton looks up. “Good. Better. Sleeping. There was a whole… thing,” he sighs and drops his head into his hands. “Thank you for defending her.”

“It was no trouble. I was asked to help.”

“Yeah, but— you got shot. That hurts.”

He’d healed. Lucy had sic’d Florence on him, and the little robot had fixed up the damage from the plasma blasts.

Anton leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You didn’t look like you got hurt at all.”

Kostchie shrugs. “I am very good at taking hits.”

Then he taps himself on the ribs with his right hand. His knuckles connect with the muffled clank of metal on metal. There had been that sound, too, like several bars of metal, when he had collided with the top of the transport.

“I’m not gonna ask…”

“But you want to.”

He shrugs. It’s a weird ripple because, well, his body does strange things now and this is his life, apparently. Sitting on the docks with an assassin with a camouflaging car, talking about being shot. _Being_ shot.

Anton looks at Kostchie. It’s getting darker by the minute as the sun sinks behind the horizon. It casts his face in heavy shadow and highlights the pale yellow gleam of his left eye. What little light remains bounces off of the metal of his hand. Then Kostchie shifts and Anton’s gaze rises back to his face. His expression is, as always, calm, level, almost bland. But there’s a sharpness under the gaze that leaves him feeling speared. One black brow arches.

“Yeah. Yeah, I want to,” Anton admits.

Kostchie sits back. He rolls his wrist, and the mechanics of his hand recalibrate, sliding past each other. He flexes his fingers. Then he unzips his jacket and shrugs it off. It crumples to the seat of his car. A moment later, he reaches down and, one-handed, pulls the worn t-shirt he wears over his head.

“Whoa— wait—” Anton starts.

Why is he protesting? He’s very okay with this. And then he’s less okay with it. Because yeah, alright. Kostchie is… He’s lean, muscled, with a trim waist and broader shoulders and chest and ropes of muscles in his upper arms, down to where the right joins with the cybernetics of his forearm and hand. Which is when Anton registers all the scars. Silvery and pink around the rim of the arm. Silvery and ragged over his ribs where the metal in his sides shows through. A long, reddish line runs from the middle of his sternum to his belt.

“I got into a bit of trouble.”

Dry amusement fills Kostchie’s voice, and when Anton meets his gaze, there’s no self-pity, no defensiveness. Just a well of calm and a hint of expectations.

“Yeah, I… can see that. Wow.”

It feels so incredibly inadequate. He shifts where he sits. Cautiously, he stretches out a hand, his arm extending.

Kostchie flinches.

“Sorry.” Anton drops his hand.

“No, no. It is not that. I do not let people poke and prod, but, ah… your stretchy trick is still slightly unnerving.”

He lets out a bark of a laugh, folding forward. “Oh, _wow_. It must be bad if it’s freaking you out.”

“Really?”

“Not—” he waves a hand, “you look great. Honest. Like, seriously. But you blew holes in guys’ heads! If that doesn’t bother you, the stretching must be really weird.”

A slow smile spreads across Kostchie’s face. He stands and rolls his shoulders. Anton’s throat works as he swallows. It’s almost full dark now, or as dark as it ever gets in the city. Light glints off of the water, off of the metal of the car, and off Kostchie’s right hand. His left eye gleams. And Anton realizes abruptly that there have probably been a lot of people who saw something very much like this right before they died. Only with more shirt. All that metal doesn’t actually make him any less attractive, which is rude, honestly.

His mouth is very dry.

He reaches for words, for anything he could say. Something to diffuse what hangs in the air between them. But he wants to know what’s going to happen.

Anton holds his breath.

Kostchie approaches him slowly. He may be almost three hundred pounds of metal and muscle, but he moves silently. He barely hesitates as Anton stands. They come face to face. Kostchie’s breath tickles his mouth. His left hand comes up and catches Anton’s jaw, thumb brushing over his evening stubble. Their noses touch. Heat comes off of him in waves even as the cold of his hand leeches through the suit. There must be more tech under his ribs, in with his heart. Anton brings a hand up and presses his palm to the scar. It feels like a standard heartbeat. Maybe a bit fast, but his is hammering so hard that Kostchie can probably see it in his neck.

“Mm. Hold onto me if your legs get weak.”

“You’re very confident.”

Kostchie is still smiling when their lips meet. Then there is just melting heat, the pressure of his mouth, and his tongue teasing into his mouth. Anton doesn’t stretch. Doesn’t go to pieces or do anything strange with his face. He just kisses back. He threads his free hand into Kostchie’s hair.

And then the kiss ends. Anton does have to hold onto him a bit. His whole body feels a bit like underset jell-o, and for a moment it’s terrifying. Then he ducks his head and lets out a breathless laugh.

“Okay,” he steadies himself. “Point taken.”

The arm wrapped around his waist has gotten noticeably warmer. Kostchie isn’t blushing. It’s almost as good. They ease apart, but their hands brush.

“I know a place. Great sushi. Quiet. Why don’t you put your shirt on and we can get dinner?”

Kostchie opened his eyes. “That was not where I was expecting this to go.”

“Sushi?”

“Asking me to put my shirt back on.”

“Take me to dinner first. Or let me take you.”

He’s smiling again when he steps back, the yellow of his left eye winking. “Alright. Get in. I will drive.”

Anton can’t quite stop himself from doing a fistpump as he makes for the car.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the C6 Discord for encouragement and help titling this thing


End file.
